


Sleeping in the fire

by mittagsfrau



Series: Hydra Husbands AUs [5]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Captain America (Movies), Deadly Charades, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, hydra husbands AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28630179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mittagsfrau/pseuds/mittagsfrau
Summary: Vince Carlucci survived a gunshot to the neck and spent 20 years behind bars for the crimes he committed with Vicki Anders. He made a deal. Now it's the year 2016 and he starts over again.
Relationships: Anatoli Knyazev/Vince Carlucci, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Series: Hydra Husbands AUs [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871758
Comments: 12
Kudos: 4





	1. nothing but pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obscureshipyard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscureshipyard/gifts).



It is nonsense  
says reason  
It is what it is  
says love

It is calamity  
says calculation  
It is nothing but pain  
says fear  
It is hopeless  
says insight  
It is what it is  
says love

It is ludicrous  
says pride  
It is foolish  
says caution  
It is impossible  
says experience  
It is what it is  
says love

(What it is, poem by Erich Fried, translated from German)

Vince is grateful that while the world is changed, some things always stay the same. Here in the gym everything is like he remembers from 20 years ago. Sure, Carlo replaced some equipment and had the showers redone but the place looks the same, smells the same and boxers are still boxers. It’s easy to talk to them, easy to train with them and sweeping and scrubbing the floors didn’t change either. 

He doesn’t have words to express his gratitude for everything Carlo did for him. Writing letters every week while Vince was in prison, keeping him up to date with everything boxing related, keeping him sane with suggestions on workout routines behind bars. Vince is sure the rigid discipline his old boxing coach instilled in him kept him out of trouble and away from drugs. 

Carlo picked him up when he was released, drove him to his place since Carlo owns the building where his gym is, gave him a job and a roof over his head. Sure, it’s just Carlo’s attic, a bed made from pallets, some old wine crates as night tables and some bookshelves but it’s home now and it makes Vince feel safe. 

The world outside is too bright, too loud, too crowded. Vince had longed for the freedom he’s afraid of now. He still prefers doing Carlo’s shopping in the small neighborhood stores instead of the supermarket. He had a meltdown when he stood in the isle with the cleaning products and this wall of bright colors and myriad options overwhelmed him. 

His days are comfortingly structured. He gets up at 5:30 in the morning, goes for a run around the block, through the park, showers in the gym, brushes his teeth, prepares breakfast for Carlo and himself and opens the gym at 7:00 sharp. Throughout the day he assists Carlo, who’s not as young and spry anymore, helps him train the guys, holding mitts, making them move. He finds time for his own workout and training, too. 

Vince trains to stay fit, to better himself and to get rid of his restlessness and frustrations. He isn’t a champ like young Vladimir, who’s next in line for a title fight. First of all Vince is 51 by now and while his hair is still black and thick and his abs fine, he’s feeling it, especially in the mornings after a long day of work. Vince knows he’s a decent fighter but never had the potential to be great. He makes up for it with sheer determination and Carlo never finds fault in his attitude. He would tell Vince in profanity laden detail if he did. 

In this small corner of the world things make sense to Vince. In the evenings he watches his way through Carlo’s collection of videotaped fights and from time to time he finds himself longing to paint again, capturing things that matter to him. As a young man he painted female nudes, now he wants to put the energy and strength of fighters on a canvas. Art supplies are ridiculously pricey, so Vince sketches on kraft paper, a roll of 100 ft is 15 bucks and it works, too. Shadows in coal and chalk as highlights. The reduced palette makes him hone his rusty skills. 

He hangs his best sketches on wire clothes hangers the shops hand out for free on a clothing rack he found dumped in the park on one of his morning runs and put up in his room. Some he has taped on the walls and looks at them when he lies in bed, unable to find sleep because he’s afraid that when he wakes up, all this is just a dream and he’s back in his cell. A strangling sense of dread follows him everywhere and from time to time it catches up with him. Boxing helps, talking to the fighters helps and creating art with his own hands helps, too. It’s those quiet moments when his fears catch up with him. He feels like if he stops moving it’s all over. Move or die, like Carlo always says. 

After a few weeks of settling in as good as he can, he finally finds the strength to buy a bouquet of white roses and takes the bus to the graveyard. There on a cold morning in March he cries at the grave of his mother, who died nearly ten years ago, poor and sick and so disgusted with him, that she never answered a single letter Vince sent her from prison. He remembers her face, still young and beautiful and he sees an echo of it every day in the mirror. But he can’t remember her voice. As he becomes aware how much she has already faded away in his memories, he sinks to his knees in front of her gravestone and begs for her forgiveness.

Vince just has finished his workout and watches Carlo train Vladimir. His footwork could be better but the young man is a machine, far above Vince’s weight class, figuratively and literally. He’s a heavyweight, 6’5’’, 230 lb. Vladimir is massive and Vince likes sketching him, trying to capture his energy, his power on paper. 

A soft voice, heavily accented interrupts his concentration. “I’ve heard about boxing and chess. Boxing and art must be a new trend.”

Vince looks up and takes in a man in a grey suit, black shirt, no tie. There’s an eagle tattooed on his throat. He’s about to answer as Vladimir calls out to this stranger, who looks so out of place in this gym, in Russian. They exchange a few words and Carlo introduces him. His name is Anatoli and he’s Vladimir’s sponsor. Anatoli stays for a while, watching the training and watching Vince.

“You’re good”, Anatoli comments, “you’re an artist.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement but Vince nods anyway.

Then Anatoli surprises him. “How much for drawing?” Vince is caught off guard. He was 20 years away from the world of art trading and he has no idea what to charge for his own measly attempts. Anatoli seems to pick up on his indecision and reaches into his suit pockets, coming up with a wad of cash. He counts his findings. “I have 200 Dollars on my person. Will that be enough?”

Vince thinks about his financial situation and how closely monitored it still is. He doesn’t want to explain a sudden boost of his income to the authorities. “I can’t take your money.”

Anatoli tilts his head and looks at him, looks right through him with those green and slanted fox eyes. “How about a trade?” Anatoli nods to Vince’s beat up boxing gloves next to him on the bench. “I bring new gloves tomorrow and take home drawing, yes?”

“Deal”, Vince says and tries not to stare at the tattoos on Anatoli’s elegant hands as they seal it with a handshake. Anatoli is back in the evening of the next day and hands him a pair of boxing gloves and takes the sketch. He even brought a portfolio to transport it. Vince isn’t familiar with the brand but as he tries them out, he finds them sturdy and well fitting. Carlo’s eyes widen as he sees them.

“Is something wrong with those?” Vince has to ask him. “Where did you get 500 bucks worth of gloves?” The old man looks concerned.

“Anatoli traded me for a sketch of the champ”, Vince explains and looks at this pricey gift in horror.

“Listen, son”, Carlo puts his battered hand on his forearm, knuckles broken and gnarly. “Anatoli is a great man but not a good man. Be careful.”

“It’s just a trade… “, Vince tries to placate him.

“I’ve seen him looking at you”, Carlo interrupts him.

As Vince frowns, the coach explains. “You’re still prettier than any dame I’ve ever seen, boy, and Anatoli sees it, too, half blind as he is.” Vince balks at those implications. Everyone called him ‘pretty boy’ when he was younger but he’s in his fifties now. That’s ridiculous.

Carlo grabs him by the scruff of his neck and drags him over to the mirror. “Look. I know you only see your crooked legs you complain so much about but you’re southern Italian male beauty distilled into one body. Even I can see that and I’m not a damn fairy.”

“You think Anatoli is?” Vince scoffs. “He’s six foot two and I can tell that he’s a mean son of a bitch. I was in prison with guys like him.”

“Just be careful. You used to turn heads in the streets and walked to the soundtrack of dropping wet panties. If you tried you could get into every hot blooded woman’s knickers still”, Carlo sighs.

“Carlo. Even the thought of touching a real woman again after so many years locked away makes me want to breathe into a paper bag.”


	2. inner vision

I turn my eye then to the shipwrecks in the deep  
Lost rivers whisper to me even as we speak  
Do I seem helpless to you?  
Well, you don't see what I see, do you?  
Are dreams so real to you, they keep you from your sleep?

(Inner Vision, Sivert Høyem)

Anatoli is absent from the gym for weeks and Vince is ready to put him out of his mind. Then he’s back one evening, hanging back in the shadows, watching the champ train as if he was always there and he watches Vince until he feels self conscious. Anatoli is tall and like many tall people he tends to slouch, back rounded, shoulders curled forward, inward, trying to appear smaller, trying not to draw too much attention to himself. Vince wishes he had problems like that. He himself is of average height but still feels like the scrawny boy he was, getting beat up by everyone bigger than him until he started training boxing. 

Anatoli isn’t exactly imposing physically. He’s trim and fit for sure but in those tight suits that are in fashion now, it’s clear that he doesn’t work out like Vince. What makes Anatoli’s presence so intense is the way even his resting face looks mean, a permanent frown creasing his brows, his asymmetrical eyes piercing and his small pink mouth cruel. Right now Anatoli looks at Vince and it makes his skin crawl, fight or flight instinct triggered. 

Vince isn’t a coward so he steps closer with a pleasant smile, greeting the man like an old friend. Anatoli stiffens in his loose embrace and seems to flinch under the friendly pat on the back. 

“You’re sweaty”, he complains and brushes his hands over his suit jacket as Vince steps back again but his gaze roams over Vince’s bare torso with something like hunger or envy. He’s not easy to read. Vince notices a blackened fingernail on Anatoli’s left thumb. “What happened?” Vince asks with a nod to the bruised appendage. 

“I’ve had your drawing framed and was stupid enough to hang it myself.”

Vince laughs and Anatoli’s mouth tries to smile. His eyes, green like Chinese jade, light up with mirth, though. 

“Speaking of, do you have more? I feel like the one you gave me is getting lonely on that wall.”

“Yes, I do have more. Let me clean up, then I’ll show you.”

Anatoli’s gaze sweeps over Vince again and he nods. 

After showering Vince leads him up to the attic and shows him the fruits of his labor. Anatoly studies every sketch attentively and silently, so Vince starts to talk because he’s getting nervous.

“I used to paint and was into art trade. I do have a degree in arts and art history.”

“Paint as in oil paintings?”

Vince nods.

“Why not paint now?” Anatoly turns his attention back on Vince. His presence is intense and Vince has the sudden urge to sketch that face, that scarred jaw, those sculpted cheekbones and this mouth that seems too small for a face like that until Anatoly smiles.

“Look around”, Vince spreads his arms, “I can’t afford the supplies.”

“But you want to paint? Let’s make deal. I commission painting of champ and I provide materials.”

Vince can’t find his voice but shakes Anatoly’s hand. The Russian smiles like someone told him a secret he won’t share.

On the next day they get a visitor at the gym again. A very lively young Russian who talks to Vladimir for a while, laughing and slapping each other playfully. Vince returns to working the bag and is about to put them out of his mind as the man approaches him. 

“I’m Tolya. You must be Vince. Anatoli sent me to bring this over.”

He holds up several large shopping bags from the fanciest and most expensive art supply store in the city. 

“He’s really sorry that he can’t come over himself. He got called away. Work, you have to understand. Poor guy probably has sand in places that vex him right now and is working on a sunburn.” Tolya laughs. 

Vince holds up his hands as explanation. He’s wearing Anatoli’s other gift. Tolya opens the bags for him and lets him peer inside. By the looks of it Anatoli bought half the store. There’s an easel, various canvases, tubes of paint and a plethora of supplies. Tolya sets the bags down at the benches and has another conversation with Vladimir in Russian before he leaves. 

Vince looks at the oil paints and the brushes and does a quick calculation in his head. Those alone are worth more than a grand. 

Carlo has joined him by now and helps him to take the gloves off. 

“Okay, coach, you were right. He wants to get into my pants.”

Vince has unpacked all art supplies and set up a studio in his room. The blank canvases seemed too intimidating for now, so he used the tactics he had learned as a poor art student. Namely collecting pressboard panels from dumped furniture on the curbs of the neighborhood and using those as canvases for his first attempts at painting for decades. 

First he just plays around, getting a feel of the paints and the brushes but slowly his small study evolves to a portrait of a familiar face. He paints it from memory. He likes those dramatic cheekbones, those mysterious eyes and that scar bisecting his lower jaw. He’s handsome in a way from an artist’s perspective. Surely he could do better than a washed up, old ex con. Time to brush up on his seduction skills to bag that rich guy. 

Since Vince has been out of the loop for way too long, he consults recent issues of Men’s Health and the GQ magazine for everything related to styling and fashion. He concludes that he needs a haircut, new clothes, well, second hand clothes that aren’t from the 90s and he steps up his workout routine. Vince is still good looking but there’s always room for improvement. Growing some stubble costs nothing, so he tries that, too, and the man in the mirror starts looking like those on the magazine covers. The haircut was ridiculously expensive and ate up most of Vince’s meagre savings. Long at the top and a neat fade at the sides. Vince feels self conscious because he had gotten used to how his unruly hair had framed his face. By the way women more than twenty years younger than him smile at him in the streets from the moment he steps out of the barber shop, the investment has more than paid off. 

Carlo was so kind to give him some shirts with the logo of the gym printed on them and he has a variety of more or less fitting clothes people forgot in the gym and didn’t return for them and very ratty sneakers. He has athletic wear more or less covered but he needs something to wear on a date. One trip to the second hand stores later and he has spent his last dollars on a pair of well fitting jeans, a V-neck t-shirt and a Henley. The leather jacket and the boots were the most expensive items but he loves them and it’s a good investment that will keep for years to come. 

Vince contemplates manscaping and consults those magazines on that topic, too. He used to have everything waxed but his public area and his armpits. Women like smooth skin and no hair means the definition of his muscles shows better. He shaves his chest in the end and trims everything neatly downstairs, trying not to think about how Anatoli will actually see his efforts in that regard. Vince has used sex to get what he wants, nothing new, but he never has been with a man. He distracts himself with painting. The commission is coming along nicely. 

The way Anatoli’s eyes widen as they meet again calms Vince’s nerves. The man barely manages to look at the painting Vince presents to him in favor of ogling Vince. 

Anatoli has a golden tan now and his freckles have multiplied. His face looks sunburnt and his nose seems to peel. He also sports a fading shiner and tries to conceal a limp. Tolya, who came with his boss, mimes walking with his head down, hands in his pockets before running into an invisible obstacle and covering his eye behind Anatoli’s back. Vince tries his best not to laugh. Anatoli makes Tolya carry the canvas downstairs in retaliation. 

Anatoli lingers and his gaze falls on the study Vince had tucked away between all the clutter. 

“You have been thinking about me”, Anatoli comments as he sees the small portrait of himself. “It seems that I live in your head like you live in mine.”

He is suddenly much closer than before and Vince feels trapped in the cramped room. As Anatoli’s big hand cups his cheek and he slowly leans in, Vince is ready to bolt. The touch feels electric, all his needy flesh alight with desire. Anatoli kisses him and Vince gasps, overwhelmed and frightened by the onset of muddled feelings. He’s been in jail for too long. Vince doesn’t know how to handle this. At this point he doesn’t care that Anatoli is a man, he just wants to be touched and touch. He clings to Anatoli, eager to hold someone close, beating heart to beating heart. 

Vince doesn’t know how much time has passed as they separate again. He feels dizzy and his lips bruised. 

As they are gone Vladimir hands Vince 50 bucks. 

“You won me a ton of money. Here’s your tip.”

“What did you bet on? “

“I was sure that he’s gay. The boys thought he wasn’t into anyone at all. All those paintings and sculptures of naked men were a good tell. Tolya had to concede defeat after he witnessed his boss being driven to utter distraction by you. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep and ran face first into a half open loading bay door.”

Vince smiles until his face hurts but Carlo comments: “you’re playing a dangerous game, boy.”


End file.
